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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23981776">Then Timothée Chalamet came along</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/alittlefrenchtree/pseuds/alittlefrenchtree'>alittlefrenchtree</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Then Timothée Chalamet came along [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Armie is not actually here, But we have Florence and Saoirse and Greta !!!, M/M, So angst I guess?, Timmy is here sometimes, and sometimes not, and their relationship, definitely NOT fluff and rainbows, lots of talks about the boys, mentioned and implied - Freeform, mentions of Little Women, no resolution? is this a tag?, obviously, that's also part of the point, that's part of the point</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 19:34:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,931</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23981776</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/alittlefrenchtree/pseuds/alittlefrenchtree</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"You’re pink," she points, digging her finger in the softness of his cheek, more Amy than herself. Her fingertip is warm against his chilled skin.</p><p>Timmy doesn’t even think before opening his mouth to answer, the words sliding out of his smiling lips with the air he exhales. "Armie always says…" He stops before the end of his sentence. His next words slip out in the same way, the second part of the same initial thought. "Never mind."</p><p>"You miss him, don’t you?"</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Timothée Chalamet/Armie Hammer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Then Timothée Chalamet came along [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1938730</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>72</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Then Timothée Chalamet came along</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Mmh. This is probably my 3084203th writing about Timmy's <strike>raising</strike> exploding fame. At this point, I'm not sure if we can still called it fiction. It's rather like... me trying to convey my anxious feelings into fake (? who knows.) (long) conversations in a vain attempt of not worrying 24/7 about him? Something like that. So check the tags and... Sorry :D</p><p>Everybody please says thank you to Lou for making this story readable for anyone who knows a thing or two about English ❤️</p><p>Title from the Vogue UK article about 4000 Miles.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <b>November 2018</b> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">It’s been a long day. Cold and tiring, with a lot of people on set and very little time to catch your breath. For some reason, many of them are still here making the day last a little longer, caught in the warm felling of camaraderie you always feel on Greta’s set. Everybody is so friendly, and smart and fun, and so fucking talented. Timmy likes it. That's why he hasn’t left the room until now. But, he needs a second — or a couple thousands of them really — to himself. If he has to breathe the freezing air of the quiet night to finally have a uninterrupted train of thought, so be it. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">The silence outside welcomes him with expecting arms like it has been waiting for him for a long time. He should have paid attention, noticed the moment noise settled like the only rumble he was able to hear. When did silence become such an old friend? Something he understands was missing only as it walks back to him, letting him measure with every step it takes the depth of the hole it left in the first place.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Before his mind wanders to places he hasn’t the strength to visit now, he focuses on the sounds ofsilence, the scratch of the sole of his shoes against the fine layer of snow, the voice of the stars whispering into the moon’s ear.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Timmy finds himself staring blankly at the facades of the fake stores on the fake street. His mind is still. Not from emptiness but because he doesn’t hold onto his thoughts, reaching a state of meditation he now uses to calm his anxiety. He doesn’t even hear when Florence comes nearer and looks at him with curious eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"You’re pink," she points, digging her finger in the softness of his cheek, more Amy than herself. Her fingertip is warm against his chilled skin.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Timmy doesn’t even think before opening his mouth to answer, the words sliding out of his smiling lips with the air he exhales. "Armie always says…" He stops before the end of his sentence. His next words slip out in the same way, the second part of the same initial thought. "Never mind."</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"You miss him, don’t you?"</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">The hesitation steals Timmy’s voice for a couple of seconds. The lecture from his conjoined team is still very present in his mind after the night of the Governor Awards.<em> People talk, Timothée, you know that. There are always, always pictures and </em>damn<em> videos and we don’t want videos, Timothée. </em><b><em>We don’t</em></b><em>.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">At some point during the past year, he stopped being an individual with his own needs and personal desires. He’s not an <em>I</em> anymore. He has become a we, a plural of millions of people, expectations, exigences. But he’s the only one living with himself when the light goes out. The only one who breaks when the storm hits. The one who has to glue the pieces back together and quiet his thoughts when the lull finally settles.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He is always afraid of missing one. Forgetting a part of himself somewhere or worse, leaving it behind on purpose because he would have reached a point where it would be easier to keep going without it. Without himself as a whole.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Fuck this.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He nods. "Every day." Then, as an afterthought, "How do you know?"</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">She points her chin in front of them, showing him the sign saying <em>Oliver &amp; Sons Butchers</em>. His throat tightens. He hadn’t even noticed. "Oh you know, this and the fact that in the first two days you’ve been here, I saw you text him and facetime him something like, two dozens of time?" She smirks, teasing.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"I’m always nervous when I arrive on a new set. It helps to share stuff with him," he explains. Even to his own ears, his voice sounds softer. Vowels are bouncier, jumping to the tempo of his heart and every consonant bends, the sharpness of their edges eroded in downy curves. "And it makes things easier for him, when I call to tell him about my day. He can picture what I’m talking about then," he adds, while looking at her with pleading eyes, silently begging her to understand, or to not make fun of him at the very least.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"You call him every day?"</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"Most of the time. Or he calls. Sometimes twice a day, sometimes less. It depends on… how things are, at the moment."</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Timmy’s thoughts suddenly overwhelm him. Lower lip trapped under his teeth, he doesn’t have to consider his own words from her perspective to know. He already does. He fucking knows how he sounds, how they look, what she must think of them, of him, of the situation. He tries to think of something to say, something to defuse the judgment certainly growing inside her mind, something to make him sounds cool, smart, maybe a little bit reckless. He doesn’t find anything. While he waits for her to answer, or to react, he wraps his arms around his body. He’s cold. The weather has very little do to with it.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"It’s beautiful. What you two have."</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Timmy exhales his relief, his arms dropping to his sides again. <em>People can be good</em>, he repeats to himself without a sound, lips only mouthing the words. <em>Not everyone has a hidden agenda, idiot</em>. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"My relationship have been judged one too many times for me to do the same thing to you," she confesses with a comforting smile. "You don’t have to worry about me."</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"Oh yeah, right." He nods too quickly. "Sorry. Or thanks. I guess?" He scratches the side of his head for a second, tries to mask his discomfort, drops his hand. <em>Still too fast.</em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"Have you ever missed someone while being with them?"</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Timmy hears the question like it has been pronounced by a different voice than his own. Similar, but different. Another Timmy from another time, perhaps. He looks around, almost expecting someone to emerge from the shadows, the ghost of their interrogation still floating around them. There is no one but him and Florence.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Florence shakes her head. "That’s something I’ve often read about and always thought was more of a literary device than a real thing."</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Timmy shakes his head. "It’s real with him. Every single thing is so real with him. Sometimes it feels like trying to walk with someone pushing you off-balance when you’re least expecting it… But in a good way?" He frowns, aware he’s not describing the effect Armie has on him very clearly. He plays with his fingers, twists them until they almost hurt. The twinge helps him focus. "But as you stumble, you realize he wasn’t trying to make you fall but only to push you in the right direction — not for himself but for you." His voice lowers as he adds, mostly for himself, "Always for you."</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Florence gently touches his arm, offering support. "And you know what?" Timmy continues. The pace of his words is quicker, his tone higher-pitched. He understands he’s trying to make her love Armie as much as he does and that he will indubitably fail. That doesn’t stop him from trying. "It wouldn’t even matter if you're about to fall. Because right before hitting the ground you realize he would never let you crash. He's walking right behind you the whole time, ready to get you back on your feet when you need it the most."</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Timmy looks at her, "I’m not making much sense, am I ?" He smiles shyly, his soft facial features all wrinkled with worry, then reaches for the back of his neck as she stares back at him. Uneasiness grows in his stomach from a seed planted there years ago and waiting for its rightful time to blossom. But the time doesn't come. It never does, and Florence is about to unleash a truth he will not like to hear, something he’s not allowed to acknowledge, even in the intimacy of his own head. He waits, waits, waits but the moment passes. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">When she finally speaks, she says something completely different from what Timmy sees in her eyes. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"How long has it been since you finished shooting? Isn’t the director known for working with the same actors?"</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"He is." A small smile dances on his lips when he continues, "And others have asked for the both of us as well. But… We’re not sure if we could trust anyone else. We’re just... We aren’t sure." </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Why did he put himself in this position? He can’t talk about his relationship with Armie. Florence is fun and smart and he loves working with her. But he barely knows her. She’s not <em>safe. </em>… And yet he keeps talking when she asks, "About what?"</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"It’s hard to explain. We tried before and nobody ever understood. This is just something we feel. Our relationship is one of the most precious thing in our lives right now. We don’t want someone to use it or expose it in ways that would make us uncomfortable. We know Luca will never. We’re not sure about anyone else."</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He contemplates the sign again. Instead of hearing his own voice when he reads <em>Oliver</em>, it’s Armie’s he hears. Statics of an old phone coloring his tone. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"And there is nothing worth risking it for."</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1">* * *</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <b>December 2019</b> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">By the time the Little Women promo tour hits Paris, Florence thought she knew a thing or two about decadence. She’s been working for a few years now so it isn’t exactly her first time traveling the world for a movie. But still, her brain continues to stop on details. Like the beige of the Ritz’s suites, sparkling like real gold. How can beige actually shine is a damn mystery to her but she has other priorities than shiny colors right now. Like pretty food, brought to the suite they’ve all been working in all day, doing endless interviews and a few photoshoots. It’s mostly empty now, everyone left in the last hour except for Greta and Saoirse. Louis said goodbye a few minutes ago, heading back to his Parisian place. She’s pretty sure Tim is still around. She saw him picking up a call a while ago, disappearing in another room for some privacy. It means more of the delicious food spread on the table just for her, so she really doesn’t mind. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">For some reason, fancy french food is also mostly beige and yes, it also looks like it’s shining. There are a multitude of different canapés with lobster, vegetable macédoine, foie gras, truffles ; blinis with smoked salmon and citrus cream, prawns on toasts with grapefruit. Two different types of club sandwiches are piled on a large white plate, the classic recipe and one with Swedish bread, avocado and artichoke. They’ve added sweet snacks, fruits salads seasoned with the most insane flavors she has ever tasted and tiny little madeleines that melt on her tongue like butter. There is also perfectly infused tea, sparkling water and three bottles of champagne even if they’re only four people. One of the bottles is practically already empty.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Florence is still munching on a prawn toast, letting the tiny segment of citrus exploding on the tip of her tongue when she picks up a sandwich. Taking a new bite before even having swallowed the previous one, she lets herself fall on the couch. <em>Thanks life for sweatpants</em>, she thinks as she sits cross-legged. Saoirse and her changed into comfier clothes as soon as their work day ended, not even bothering to go back to their rooms. They used the stuff they carry with them everywhere, abandoning the designers clothes every chance they get.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"Who’s playing?" Greta asks, closing her laptop and putting it away. She takes a sip of champagne as they all listen to the light notes of piano coming from afar.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Florence’s glance crosses the entire room. The door connecting to the other parts of the suite is only slightly open and she can’t really see what’s behind. A fading ray of light is peaking through the general darkness, the music only a distant murmur. She can imagine delicate fingers barely brushing over the keys. It sounds like a lullaby sang to no one.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"Timmy" Saoirse answers absent-mindedly, not surprised at all.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Greta nods, taking interest in the food in front of her but marks a pause before making a choice. "Wait— I know this song. Is it… Is it a piece from Call me by your name?"</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"I think so. He probably left for his daily call with Armie so…" Saoirse shrugs and Greta mimics her move, both understanding and agreeing.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"Oh, so everyone knows?" Florence can’t help but being a little surprised. It’s not like Tim is particularly subtle but she had imagined it was a secret so obvious, people didn’t talk about it. Pretended not to notice, not to know. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"Knows what?"</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"That Tim is in love with Armie?" The words stay in the air, invisible and at the very core of everything.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"Oh <em>that</em>." Saoirse raises her eyebrows suggestively and smiles lightly with humor. "Yes, pretty much. How long did it take you to figure it out?"</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"Within two days on set?" Florence tries, not sure how much she’s supposed to know or say.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">They share a quiet laugh.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"I had doubts after two days," Florence specifies. "But it became very clear when I found him one night, staring at the Oliver &amp; Whatever sign on set, looking both happy and sad at the same time, like only love can make you. And the things he said… I was starting to question if <em>I</em> had ever been in love in my life."</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Saoirse’s nose wrinkles, sympathetic. "Yeah, he kind of does that to you."</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">The three of them stay silent for a moment, listening to Tim mixing songs of his movie’s soundtrack. His fingertips press notes in a strange mashup of heartbreak and hope, of eternities and opportunities that have never been.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Florence is about to take the last bit of her sandwich when a drop of sauce falls on her pants. "Shit" she shouts in a whisper, using her finger to clean it up and shoves the digit in her mouth. "What kind of guy is Armie?" she asks, now piling up snacks on a serving plate so she doesn’t have to leave the couch anymore. She sniffs what looks like pepper sprinkled over apples, pears and oranges. "I’ve never properly met him."</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Saoirse snorts, "The kind who is even more in love with Timmy than Timmy is with him?"</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"No way." Florence’s eyebrows raise in surprise. "You’re not even kidding! How is that possible?"</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"I know, I know. I was a little bit skeptical at first but…" Saoirse shrugs again. She understands how and why Florence’s curiosity is piqued but it’s nothing new for her. She’s been half-speaking about it for too many years with Timmy now. She’s used to people not quite understanding what’s going on between the two boys, used to being one of those people herself.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"But do they know? How stupidly in love they are with each other?" </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Greta, taking part of the conversation, shifts its tone. Saoirse stops looking at her phone and Florence sits back on the couch, legs bent under her. And sure enough, the next words escaping her lips are headline material. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"They’re not only in love — they’re everything in between and around to each other, the above and the under as well. That’s the whole problem."</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"I don’t understand," Florence says. "Doesn’t Armie live with his family like… in LA? Do they even see each other?"</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"As much as they can. But you’ll never hear about it."</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"Why not?"</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"Too risky." Saoirse shakes her head when she notices the look of confusion on Florence’s face, and on Greta’s as well but in a more diffuse way. "You don’t understand." She licks her lips, looking for the right words to describe how it feels to be around Timmy and Armie together. The never ending feeling of intruding even if they’re not doing anything, of always wondering if you’re really understanding them or if they’re just kind enough to make sure you feel included in their little world, even if only for a few minutes. Failing to find how she could explain all of it, she tries something else. "Have you ever seen them together?"</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Florence stays quiet for a second, mentally counting the years, then deciding to do the counting on her fingers. After another sip of champagne, "A few times, during Lady Macbeth. I quickly talked to Tim once or twice back then, I think. But the two of them together… Never from up close."</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"Why not ?" There is a sparkle of expectation in Saoirse’s voice, like she already knows the answer to her own question. Her back straightens, only waiting for Florence to catch up.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"I don’t—"</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"No, no, no," Saoirse interrupts, with one finger raised. "Think about it for a second. <em>Why not?"</em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"I guess I didn’t want to intrude?" Florence tries and judging by the smile on Saoirse’s face, it seems like she has given the expected answer.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"You can’t imagine how many times I’ve heard that back in the time. Everyone was dying to talk to them but many never dared so, unless they were introduced by someone else. They’re an entity, together. That’s why it's so complicated now."</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Seeing Florence still a little lost, Saoirse empties the rest of her glass and puts it aside to focus on what she’s saying.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"If you see them together again one day, like really see them, you’ll understand why. Why it’s so complicated, why they avoid meeting in public. They just… light up alongside each other, like a goddamn couple. Take them away from each other for three days or three months, it doesn’t change a single thing. They fall into each other's arms as if one of them were coming back from the front."</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Florence notices the light smile on Saoirse’s lips, the love and affection she has for Tim and Armie very clear in her voice. But a shadow is already growing in her eyes, obscuring the light blue. Somewhere in the other room, the melody shifts to a bolder tempo.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"About… When was that? About a year ago, I think? They got to a point where it was getting out of control. For every step they were taking, the entire world wouldn’t stop staring at them. Fans but like, professionals of all kinds too. And you know our world, it likes to talk. The stories about them, the constant mentions of the two of them, were everywhere. When there were pictures… Medias were <em>swooning</em> and everybody was going crazy for days. There is something about them… I don’t know, it’s just too magnetic."</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"It reminds me of something Luca said to me once…" Greta starts slowly, trying to organize her thoughts and memories. "It was the four of us and I was talking with Luca. Armie and Timmy were near by, just… Existing together, I guess. I wanted to express my admiration towards Luca’s work on their movie and he said, <em>what work?</em> Then he looked at them with this warmth in his eyes and added something about the fact that there was almost nothing to do. Everything he needed was already there, between the two of them. I was mostly jealous because… What a dream for a director, you know? But I never understood what it implied for Armie and Timmy."</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Saoirse nods a few times, Greta obviously giving her elements to confirm what she already thought. "Because you mostly saw them and heard about them during Call me. At that time, it was gold for everyone. Their teams were delighted to see them like that. You can’t dream of a better way to promote a movie. It's something you can’t <em>make</em> happen, it just happens and most of the time, it doesn’t. Their people only had to adjust a story here, prevent them from sharing too much there. Because, believe me, there are so many stories they never shared in public. Stories many people would kill to hear when all you need to do is take a couple of shots with Timmy, mention Armie once and…" She smirks, "Oh boy, the guy has some <em>real</em> stories."</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Greta’s face brightens with excitement.  "These two do have a lot of stories! More in twelve months than I had in some of my romantic relationships in, like, <em>years</em>." She pauses, thinking for a second. "You know I thought… At first, I thought it was for Call me — I mean, for the sequel. When I heard the first talks about it, I didn’t understand. You don’t want people to talk about a sequel when your movie is barely out. Not even out at all in most countries. Then Timmy told me. At first, it was only an unfiltered thought from Luca… Not even an idea. Nothing much than the unrealistic dream of picking up again the book you’ve started writing at 18 but never finished because… We only have one Jo March, right?" She looks at Saoirse with a wink and a smile, unrestraint pride all over her face. Saoirse’s cheeks are still a little flushed when Greta speaks again, following her first idea. "But that’s a thought Luca voiced in public. And as soon as it was out there… Well, it was everywhere. I guess they could have let it die pretty quickly but they didn’t, for some reason." She shrugs to translate that she still doesn’t understand why they did what they did. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"So anyway, I thought it was because of that," Greta resumes. "It was way too early and I thought it was actually a good idea to, you know, hide them a little. Imagine if the first time people saw them together again after all these years was on the red carpet of the world premiere of the sequel? Like you said, everyone would lose their mind."</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">The image drifts in their three respective minds for a few seconds, not really difficult to picture. Timmy walking a gigantic red carpet with his latest move. This time it’s something he came up with himself, the trend taking over the world faster than any dab. It isn’t his suit — immaculately white but somehow edgy and undoubtably Haider-y — that stole the attention but the unrivaled glow he’s wearing, matching the brightness of Armie’s smile by his side. "You’re not wrong," Saoirse concedes. "Or at least you wouldn’t have been wrong if the situation hadn’t been — Maybe it was the original plan, I don’t know. At least, how they presented it in the first place. But then..." She takes a break without ending her phrase.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Like very often in her life, Florence suddenly looks at what’s in front of her like a scene of a movie. She imagines the dramatic silence, the heavy atmosphere and the anticipation brought by some camera angles, close-ups. Maybe a single deep note to underline Saoirse's next words, delivered stripped of any sound. In reality, she mostly hears her own teeth mushing on a madeleine and the sorrowful sloppy feelings coming from Tim’s piano while looking at Saoirse who’s picking dirt under her nails. Not really Hollywood friendly.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"Then little Timmy became Timothée Chalamet. He started promoting Beautiful Boy and media, fans, everyone and their grandma really, were talking about reunions and sequels every time they met. Same for Armie. I can’t remember the movies he was promoting but he was also doing theater at the same time. Yet, people — media — kept asking him about Timmy instead of his own work. Their teams... weren’t very pleased, to say the least. What had been a blessing was starting to feel like a nightmare for them. A curse, almost. They tried to contain it but it was hopeless."</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"Why? Publicists always ban subjects from interviews because of embargos, or to protect us. That’s half their jobs, actually." Grabbing the full meaning of what Saoirse is doing her best to explain isn’t that easy for Florence. She understands what her friend means but she doesn’t get why it seems so hard to fix. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"Armie doesn’t give a fuck about his image," Saoirse smiles, clearly appreciative of his policy. "He refused to make Timmy someone he couldn’t talk about, even if he was the one looking… Let’s say <em>questionable</em> by doing so. And Timmy... Well, there are dozens of examples on the internet showing how unable this kid is to look at or even talk about Armie without looking starstruck and in love. It wasn’t much of an issue — it was mostly cute actually — until… They all happened. Netflix, Legendary, the Warner… Everything."</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">In the three names, Florence finds the element she was missing to fully understand. She has seen enough of the business to know that, whatever is implied in Saoirse’s words is big and probably not really pretty.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Saoirse opens the second bottle and refills their glasses. "Timmy didn’t tell you about that ?" she asks, looking at Greta who is slowly shaking her head. "If you know Timmy, you know the only thing he loves more than Armie is acting," She pauses for half a second, a dash of cockiness in her eyes when she says, "and me, of course, but I, for once, am not relevant to the story."</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Florence laughs quietly as Greta rolls her eyes while shaking her head.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"Netflix was already trying to make Timmy agree to a bit of a change. He was still very much this awkward actor from independent movies and they needed someone whose fame was big enough to carry the lead of a blockbuster. Timmy didn’t like the idea very much and they realized too late what kind of potential was not so very well hidden in him. Everything was already signed so there wasn’t much they could do. But then…" Saoirse’s face darkens. "Timmy wanted Dune and Dune wanted Timmy... Except the people paying for Dune wanted an upgraded version of Timmy. They already knew Timmy was reluctant to any PR stuff, so they wrote contracts with clauses. Lots of them, about crazy detailed things from people he is encouraged to be seen with to numbers of followers on his social media accounts." </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Lips pinched, jaw locked, Saoirse stiffens. She doesn’t say a word about what she thinks, but the message carried by her body is loud and clear. "Timmy wasn’t happy about it. But he hadn’t much of a choice. He was in no position to negotiate. Well, he did manage to make them remove a few things, but not many. If he wanted the role, he had to sign and accept their deal and other very fucked up things. So he did. Of course he did. You don’t say no to a lead part on a movie based on the sci-fi freaking bible and directed by Villeneuve himself. You just don’t."</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">The looks shared between Saoirse and Greta infuse a feeling of discomfort in Florence. They’re all friends but Saoirse and Greta are among the closest ones in Tim's professional circle, which Florence isn’t. She shifts a little, puts her plate on the arm of the couch to hug her knees tightly with both her arms. Their business is amazing, until it isn’t.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"Timmy struggled a lot after that. With the business, but with himself mostly. He wasn’t naive enough to think he could build a whole career without a few compromises but... I think he didn’t expect so many things in so little time. He wondered… For a while, he wondered if it was worth the sacrifice. If you’ve abandoned too much of yourself at the altar of your dream, how can you be sure it hasn’t already turned into a nightmare? I guess he decided it was worth it. But he hasn’t talked about it since he signed — not with me at least."  </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">A deep silence falls upon them. It drags its heaviness for quite some time. Beige has stopped being gold, its shine fading away. Or perhaps gold was never incandescent to begin with, the brightness only illusory to those who were easy to dazzle. Saoirse lets out a heavy sigh before she speaks again.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"Netflix, of course, was delighted with the turn of events. They were finally allowed to do what they wanted and Timmy… Well, in a way he still was working on two of his movies, so he was focusing on that. But all of this... All of this wasn’t even the worst part."</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"No?"</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"No, the worst part was he had to talk to Armie."</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"Oh."</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"Yeah. Everyone loves Armie but he’s nowhere near what they need for what they’re trying to build for Timmy. Not right now at least. Besides, now that Timmy is about to become… What am I even saying?" Saoirse breathes out a laugh, still not quite believing what she’s about to say. Who could have guessed that the shy kid who was randomly nuzzling almost everybody around him and was always listening to hip hop so loudly you could actually hear everything through his headphones would become an icon before the age of 25? Everyone who ever crossed his path, she realizes. "He <em>is</em> a fucking big deal now. And even if they already showed how much they love each other, despite the fact that Armie would never, ever have a single self-interested thought towards Timmy, he couldn’t… Armie would have ended up looking suspicious, no matter what. So they both finally agreed on doing things differently. Well, Armie mostly agreed because he would basically do anything for Timmy but… Yeah. I’m not sure what it meant exactly, but I think the idea was to tone down their relationship, make them look like regular former co-stars and friends from a far, far distance instead of... What they are in reality." </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">The fruit Florence puts in her mouth holds no taste. She realizes she lost her appetite. She grabs her phone, quickly texting Zach about how much she loves him, misses him and is grateful to have him in her life. She sounds a lot cheesier than she normally does but it feels like the right thing to do in this moment.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"…Is all of it necessary?" Greta asks after a moment. "I mean, did anything even happen between them? At all?"</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"I don’t know. Timmy never really told me. I’m pretty sure Armie is even more unlikely to have told anyone, if something did. The only ones who know for sure are Timmy and Armie themselves. The only thing I know is… Whenever Timmy completely disappears from the surface of the Earth, it's because he’s with Armie. It never lasts long — 48 or 72 hours tops because they’re both so busy — but he does disappear every once in a while. No phone, no nothing. Same for Armie. Except for his kids, I guess."</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"So, they’re lovers."</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Saoirse smirks but keeps her opinion unspoken. "That’s not really the point anymore. They could be fucking their brains out every other week or married to each other, that wouldn’t matter, as long as they look like they don’t."</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"This is one of the saddest stories I’ve ever heard."</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"I’m worried about him." Saoirse sighs. "I don’t know if you’ve been able to spot it since last year, Flo, but Greta, I’m sure you saw. He hasn’t changed but he has… Withdrawn, somehow. Put up barriers he wouldn’t even have thought of needing before. He had to, I know that. But I’m scared because I’m not sure what’s going on behind those walls anymore."</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">They’ve been so caught up in their conversation they didn’t hear the silence forming. But they’re finally listening now, and it’s hard to miss. The piano is quiet and has been for a while now. Quite a long time, considering Tim who is standing in the door frame, darkness from the room he left surrounding him. He’s still wearing the clothes he had on earlier — blue sweater and washed denim jeans — except he took off the white t-shirt he had on top for the magazine shoot. His curls form an unorganized mess on top of his head, like he has been pulling at the strands for a while. He should look like a regular guy. And yet he doesn’t. He is watching them, the unusual stiffness in his posture colder than his eyes. The silence stretches, uncomfortable. It even takes its time to linger and write nuances of guilt in the trail of its shadow.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Florence grabs her glass again to sip at her champagne, more to keep her hands busy than anything. She hasn’t talked much in the last minutes, only listening to Saoirse and Greta undressing one of the most intimate part of Tim’s life without thinking about it twice. Florence knows the sense of discomfort hitching her skin is nothing compared to what they must be feeling right now.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Saoirse’s pupils expand as she realized what she’s done. She already knows Timmy wouldn’t have minded telling the story himself, would have rather been part of his own narration instead of hearing another recount it for him. But they took that away from him. Like everyone else, they highjacked his life and made a tale out of it. Something to talk about. Was it really better if they were driven by their love for him, their friendships and worries? Or was it was worse, exactly because of that?</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"Timmy…" Saoirse tries but he doesn’t answer, doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even move for a few seconds.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">As Tim keeps watching them, an aloof aura floating around him, Florence fully understands what Saoirse tried to explain earlier. For a moment, several different versions of Tim overlay themselves right in front of her eyes. It feels like being able to see through ages or perhaps it’s Tim, who has developed the strange ability of being present at all time, existing since the beginning and forever, a newborn, an old man, an immortal. Thousands of variations of him, crawling right under his skin, their outlines only apparent under black light.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Right now, Florence is able to clearly see three of them : the one she met in early 2018 from far away, the one in late 2018 in front of the Oliver sign from maybe a bit too close and the Tim she’s looking at right now who should stand somewhere in between but, for a reason she can’t word, looks a light year away from them. Looking at Tim in this moment, Florence sees them fighting behind his eyes. The pale green of his iris is gone, shaded and buried under the dark grey of ashes, hiding who has lost but who has won as well. Remain three silhouettes covered in dust without much of an identity but the ones assigned to them by a faceless authority. The battle has been fast, the soldiers, too exhausted to even fight for themselves, resting alongside each other because they have no other choice. None of them can live without the others. No one knows if they can exist together without mutual destruction. Tim’s mind is the only force holding all of it as a whole. Compelling the infinity of them, of him, into one body.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tim doesn’t make a sound when he moves to leave, his walk unusually rigid. He ignores both Greta and Saoirse when they try to stop him. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">The door shuts behind him with a muffled sound.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm also alittlefrenchtree on tumblr :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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